Solshe Oneshots
by Blit'zeen
Summary: This will be a collection of Solomon and Sheba moments. No Aladdin at this stage. Hehe. A little romance, but I don't usually write like this. The whole gang will be involved now and then and stories will not be ordered in time.
1. A Sleepy Proposal

A Sleepy Proposal

She lounged on the bedroom floor, a mass of limbs and body swaddled in far too many blankets to possibly feel comfortable. Or so Solomon thought. At least some part of her was free; thick, unbounded locks of hair sprouted from what he guessed was the front of the colourful bundle as it began shimmying towards him from it's position on the ground. The man fought back a laugh, but a smile still played across his face.

"Sheba, this is childish, you look like a headless caterpillar," he teased. The young woman continued in her painstakingly slow voyage to their bed before replying.

"But Solomon, it's cold," her reply was muffled and the last word drawn out, reminding the said man even more of her childish antics. It was true. Despite the sun showering their room with pale light, the rays sprinkled only a feeble warmth, and even that had been drained with the distance of supply and lingering frost from the night before. Even so, this wriggling simply was not necessary.

"This wriggling simply is not necessary," he said. Sheba stilled, and for a moment, Solomon worried that perhaps she had stood on her hair, or got herself tangled hopelessly, or couldn't breathe, or-then she proceeded to shove her head into view, frowning indignantly at him.

"Yes, it is," A pause. "And stop smiling at me, it's not funny! Solomon. Solomon, stop," she whined, each word almost half an octave higher than the last. Solomon couldn't help it, his amusement bubbled over in a string of laughter and the man flopped back onto their now barren bed. And then the sun seemed to shine that little bit brighter and the cold seemed a little less intense. Sheba beamed, struggling briefly from her cocooning restraints before launching herself in a most unruly harmony of movement at the unsuspecting Solomon. She watched pale fear flicker across his face, disappearing as quickly as it came. Attempting to rise from his vulnerable position, the man only managed to get one shoulder into it's desired place. He shouldn't have. Solomon gave the masculine equivalent of a yelp as Sheba barreled into him, her momentum hurling them across the bed and onto the-very hard-floor. There was a glassy moment of disbelief and confusion before it shattered into laughter, their clamor echoing down the halls.

It was still, but comfortingly so. Curled into his side, each breath a whispering sigh, Sheba teetered on the verge of the great void that was sleep. And though their previous commotion had long since ebbed into a soft closeness, it was not silent. The distant clang of a staff on staff almost harmoniously interfered with a cacophony of birds, while feverish hums and buzzes adorned the musical. Just from the interval between each impact and the distinctive woosh and crackle of spells cast, Solomon could tell that it was Ithnan and Wahid that were sparring.

'Try harder, aru! Or you are going to like, get fat, aru!' His lips quirked up in mirth, they must have missed lunch. With a gravelly sigh, Solomon transferred his weight away from the dozing young woman, intending to satisfy the growling string of complaints issued plaintively from his stomach. He'd only just managed to swing one leg down the side of their bed when Sheba let out a little snuffle.

'Solomon?' He froze, one thought looping in his head._Go back to sleep, go back to sleep, go back to sleep._ 'What're you doing?' He thought the answer was rather obvious, but hearing her words so slurred with lethargy, Solomon couldn't find it in his heart to point it out. Even then, it was about time they got up.

'Well, I thought it was about time we, you know-' And then he was cut off by the first comment that came to Sheba's sleep addled mind.

'-got married?'

And then it was like she had never been half asleep at all. With a startled 'ah,' she covered her face with two hands, skin flushing a deep crimson. Sheba leaned back in the mattress-just like that time when they were all discussing magician's ability to slow the aging process. It seemed so long ago now and the two of them had come such a long way. Solomon, who had been gazing blankly at some irrelevant point behind her was thinking rapidly, calculating the seriousness of such a comment and what had compelled its utterance. In no time at all, these thoughts were cluttered around in his mind, shoving at each other for his attention. The peace in the air split into awkwardness and uncertainty, the two values nurturing silence. And then a sudden excitement swept it all away, forcing a grin onto Solomon's face.

'Sheba...' Her gulp was audible and the young woman wriggled under the covers, evident panic aiding her pathetic quest of exiting the bed from the bottom of their blankets. It was quite ridiculous, really.

'Would this be a proposal…?' He said, unable to keep the teasing tone from invading the phrase. Sheba stopped, actually considering the action of grabbing a nearby object-preferably something hard-and throwing it at him. And then light flooded her vision, taking the shape of Solomon's face as he whipped the obscuring fabric away. She was placate him, to diverge the confrontation-as she felt it was more like a confrontation than a civilised conversation-to perhaps another day. But it was probably her heart relentlessly lunging at her throat, or maybe the air rushing up and down her windpipe that blockaded her intended speech. Seeing the lack of regret in her eyes and the flustered opening and closing of her mouth, Solomon only smiled wider. A grin like the one on a particular little boy so many years ago.

'Because yes, it's about time we did.'

The end.

_An accidental/spur of the moment proposal. Person A says something in a conversation that starts out like "I think it's time we…" and person B asks "get married?" and person A says, "buy some more milk… but getting married works, too." "Let's do it!"_

_-otpprompts, tumblr_

Well, that was my first Fanfic.

I don't even know what to say.

Please review, there will probably be more chapters but if there are no reviews, there will be none.

THERE NEED TO BE MORE FANFICS ON THIS PAIRING


	2. Legacy

When someone great dies, the bitter reality is that their legacy ends. They can not come back. They can not live on. And often, a mind along their par does not return in many coming ages. This time may well be dark. But when it does, the light of such a mind continues and the darkness willl shatter. Destiny changes course. Fate decided it to be so. Ask the difference now, but remember that once upon a time, They were defined so differently. Remember that Destiny is liquid and that Fate is will. (Will of the ceased great?) Remember that Fate defines a new legacy; this legacy that may well exceed the one of eons past. Perhaps though, if that legacy-the one of too long ago-was indeed too long ago, who would remember? Who would remember that there was someone before this One and that there will bound to be more after this One? What will sustain the hope of legacies past? The answer lies in memory and words. Stories spoken word by word, inevitably recorded. These stories would be so great, so filled with wonder that the deeds would be undoubtedly exaggerated. Almost sorely believed and accepted into fabric probably stretched into some thin tale to ring in the ears of travellers children, to echo in their children and to tinkle in their childrens' children. Maybe, the tale will be stretched so thin as to be stained with impossible. But that too is fine, isn't it? For each great story turns to legend, and the legacy-even if not the weaver-lives on through time.

Will you weave for us?

-Inspired by the ceased Legacy of Our Great Lord Solomon

-Not exactly Solshe

-I'm sorry

-Really sorry

-I could've killed your hype

-Sorry

-Haa SURAKITTMAY I DARE YOU TO BEAT THIS

-I wrote this in like, 10 minutes, aru.

-I never write things in like, 10 minutes, aru

-THE POWER OF THE OUR GREAT LORD SOLOMON ENABLED MY SPOUTING

-Wow, now I'm thinking-'The hell was that?'

-And no, Pure Light, this is not the big project I have spoke of

-Does anyone else notice the strange link between Sinbad and Elder David?

-I mean, just their faces should give you some inkling.

-I'm talking more than I've written.

-Sorry it's so short.

-I just had to bring this to all those Magi readers out there.

-The anime-watchers are just too lazy.

-My desktop is looping pictures of Magi.

-It's great.

-This was supposed to be a one-sentence prompt for myself, BUT I COULDN'T STOP

-I'll stop soon, but first

-CHANT WITH ME

-ALL HAIL OUR GREAT LORD SOLOMON ALL HAIL OUR GREAT LORD SOLOMON ALL HAIL OUR GREAT LORD SOLOMON ALL HAIL OUR GREAT LORD SOLOMON ALL HAIL OUR GREAT LORD SOLOMON ALL HAIL OUR GREAT LORD SOLOMON ALL HAIL OUR GREAT LORD SOLOMON ALL HAIL OUR GREAT LORD SOLOMON

Solshe Forever

-Blitz

HA IM COPYING YOU SURAKITTMAY NYAAAAAH


	3. Of Love and Loss

Of Love and Loss

She knows she is dead because her end-the end-was all so terrible, so heartbreakingly vivid. And because nothing else can compare to this weightless nostalgia rather than death itself. For the first time in many years, Sheba is free. It's sad, yet she doesn't know what she would rather.

She adjusts to the dimension, an endless, empty space. But, packed all around her-rimmed with pale golden-minuscule birds of the purest white. Here, it is not cold, but also not warm in the same way. It's not like she can see, hear, smell or even feel. Awareness, she figures, is simply this evident, unnameable ability to sense.

Like a fascinated child, Sheba marvels at the pale birds as they swirl in the aether. They are called the rukh-the Home of Souls. She knows this because Ugo discovered them. That was literally a lifetime ago. Sheba feels a sharp pang of guilt, of remorse for the dimension she has left behind. But there is nothing left for her to do; her role has vanished with her. The world has vanished without her.

The birds are silent and flit together in swaths of light as if they are controlled-no orchestrated-by a greater will. She realises how correct she is just as they split, great curtains of pale golden drawing apart for the conductor to glide into view. It is none other than Solomon. She is oddly touched to find that in this place of unfamiliarity, he is here to receive her.

His rukh is arranged in a perfect replica of his form, each tiny bird compressed and each flapping in synchronisation. In this way he moves, takes long, flowing strides. And he looks at her with the same conscious as he used to before he ascended into the rukh. Before he broke her heart.

Sheba feels raw emotion twist and flip inside her, it ignites with an agonizing yearning and burns, livid as the rukh in this space. She makes to move towards his approaching form, but she is thinking too literally. Human steps of muscle and bone instead of the spiritual will to move. And of course, her rukh flutters in disorientation, this dimension's equivalent of losing balance and stumbling.

And then Solomon is suddenly there, holding her close. It barely feels possible, but yes. He is embracing her rukh. His warmth isn't there; his form devoid of voice. Yet there is nothing more convincing than the rukh itself. Ugo had said that the rukh cannot lie, and Sheba clings to that information in the same way that she clings to him. And if she has tear ducts, she would cry.

But she doesn't, so she doesn't. It has been too long a time. Their thoughts swirl together; there is nothing holding them back. In the galaxy of free musings, their intact ones share the sacred dialect of sense. His are remorseful and reassuring, hers wounded and desperate. Together, they resonate of love and loss.

Eventually, the time will come when Sheba's rukh will not be able to hold itself together. Influenced by his own encompassing will, it will dissipate and the bits of her own self will lose itself in the great flow. Watching, waiting to be reborn. Like sand in a storm. He wishes to shelter her, preserve her, but there is no way to stop it. He understands the futility of such an endeavor. He cannot deny the solitude of his position, and the one person that wished to forever accompany him will ultimately be lost. He will be alone again, immersed in the fragmented souls of his brethren. He will remain the conductor; the soul and will of his storm; the walker in the wind. Was this not of his own will?

Sheba is falling apart. She knows what is about to happen. She glances at Solomon, but all she can see are his sad, sad eyes. The reassurance has faded in the same way her soul will. He's saying goodbye, he's saying he loves her very, very much, she understands. But she can't complete her reply before the Separation steals her heart and voice. Why do they have to go first? Her soul splits and caresses his with a final, silent, impossible will. He watches her go, mindless, heartless, soulless self in her golden vessels as she joins the rest of them, dancing in his space.

He watches, even after he knows that she has forgotten him.

As much as I'm sure we all wish there was a happy ending, there wasn't. The tale ended unkindly, and my tale is here to hopefully soften the blow. Or worsen it, you never know.

I'm crying right now.

Don't have to read the below

I'd like to stake my belief in the rukh-the home of souls. I think that when one dies, their soul kind of breaks apart into fragments of rukh after a short while, so parts of their personality, parts of themselves are scattered in separate little bundles of personality and physical traits and memories. And when someone is born, random rukh gathers-random bits of random dead people gather-and are reborn. The rukh of one person will gravitate near his or her descendants so that, mixed with science and genetics, children may have same personality or physical traits. In this way, no new human will ever be the same as another.

However, Solomon, being the Phenomenon he is, has all his rukh in the same relative space so that the appearance of his physical form is retained and his mind and soul, in effect are also in sync. Therefore, he would function pretty normally except with the absence of a physical form and physical-think physics-rules.

Of course, the third dimension-the dimension of spirituality and rukh-would not exist as some form of heaven. Rather a resting place for the deceased before rebirth. A dead person such as Sheba would abide just as surely to the rules as anyone else would.


	4. Night in the Library

**I just want to acknowledge that i haven't written for ages, and I blame my lack of creativity for that. So ye, here you go. It's set before the coronation when the internal conflicts have started up.**

She enters wordlessly, crossing the dark space between the door and himself with steps so soft that they can barely be heard. Gently, She sets his plateful of food, still warm and fragrant, down upon the low table, and it too, nearly makes no sound. And he knows who she is far before he meets those beautiful, temperamental eyes of hers. They exchange a nod. It's always her, after all. She scuttles around the rectangular slab of tabletop, wedges herself at his side, the shell of her ear pressed against his shoulder. He shifts the book just slightly, partially so she can see better, but more so as an acceptance; a silent welcome. A warm quiet billows up to meet the faraway ceiling.

Soon, she grows bored of his readings. The laws of physics have never entranced her like they have captured him. He can tell by the way she grants his side ever more attention than the dust-lined pages. And so, he isn't surprised when she crosses the cold space before them again and vanishes into the shelves here, into the art section in particular. Be it sketching, drawing, or even sculpture with leftover melon skin, meticulously cut into perfectly fitting little pieces, she's always had a passion for visual art. Only recently, she completed an ink and dye work of a landscape dominated by black night and platinum stars that even Dantalion admired.

It is only a short while until she returns, a thin volume of dancers, painted or drawn with every kind of grace and movement. She spares a fleeting glance towards his untouched food, then makes herself comfortable again. Both silken legs are draped across a low armrest, upper back and head against him once more. It is a wonder that she finds this comfortable, he muses. She flicks about the more central pages and settles on a chapter with more pictures than words, though she is perfectly capable of reading. None of the figures there hold their own as he compares them to her. How can they? He watches her eyes skim the page, quickly, but always lingering. He watches her eyelashes twitch and quiver, aglow with the fire of the lamps and candles on this corner of the library. Deep inside, he feels the stirring of something warm. Almost smiling, he returns to his book.

She arches her neck backwards, book flopping at an odd angle against her stomach. The top of her head nudges firmly at his arm and she twists his gaze into his. He knows what she's going to say even before she opens her mouth.

"Solomon, your dinner is getting cold," she's wrong. His dinner is already cold. He says nothing, watched her swallow ripple down her exposed neck. She's going to tell him what's been happening around the table, who won which card game, what stupid dare Ithnan got Ugo to perform this time. She's going to smile animatedly, fill their orb of light with a crisp cheer, unable to let this comfortable silence stretch on. He is wrong, and he realises it as she shifts to sit up straighter, removes her legs from the armrests to place shoed feet flat on the floor. "You...have been coming here more and more often, you know, and everyone's..."

She trails off, places a soft hand on his forearm. He knows what word remains unspoken. "And. I was just thinking, you shouldn't let the other species and the magicians get to you, it's not, it's just not-"

He cuts her erratic tirade off with his own hand utop hers and a flush creeps up her jawline, painting her cheeks to an impossibly finer finish. She closes her still-open mouth.

"You worry too much," he says with the same reassurance that she squeezed his arm with, just moments ago. "I don't come here just to get away from the crowds or to think about those things. I do that enough. I come here for you, Sheba." For a moment, she doesn't understand. He can see it in the crease between her brows, the pout about her lips. And then it's gone. He removes the hand, traces her sculpted cheekbone and flawless jaw with a feathery finger. There is a split second of perfection, and then: "You worry wart. If you keep at this, you'll turn into one. A wart, I mean." And just like that, the moment is shattered. With spontaneous accuracy, she blindly swipes at him with her book, hair askew with life, pages flapping everywhere. He chuckles, repeatedly dodging around the small space of the couch.

And through it all, she is happy. Because he is smiling, laughing genuinely, something that is happening increasingly less often.

**Excuse this style of writing. I felt like it. **

**Be nice and review?**


	5. Doyouexpectmetonameeverythingdoyou?

**This is my first try at a songfic. I am openly admitting that It sucks. Forgive me. The song is you are not alone by michael jackson. Shun me if you will. also, it's the holidays so I may actually write a bit more here. Ideas or whatever are wanted, drop them in PM if you have any, unlike me. ;)**

She wakes. And within a second she is drowning again, breathing in her burden, her solitude. For there is nothing else. The waves are less like water than they are like poison, slow and devious. And her food has become filth, full and empty, because her appetite is one of a ghost now. See, it does not get better. For with every passing hour, like grains of salt and sand through his fingers, it worsens. Worsens, until there is nothing left but a fear.

_Another day is gone_

_I'm still all alone_

Can she believe that it was meant to be? Can she accept this, unlike anybody else? She cannot. Nor can she carry this world that he'd built. She clutches her chest with dry tears like wind through water, like the invisible rukh, like his silent farewell she still cannot hear. Her chest, damp with soundless anguish. It is a passionless woe. Her heart, through her fingers. They are bloody.

_You never said goodbye_

_Someone tell me why_

It is her ritual. She tries to forget, but only by remembering. She dresses in far more layers, far heavier jewelry day by fading day, week by bitter week, month by brutal month. She does not watch the turn of the year when it comes. All of this to seek warmth with desperate fibres of coat and soul. All of this so she does not float away. And so, she does not watch herself sink when she does.

_Did you have to go_

_And leave my world so cold_

She sees him in the swirling wallpapers. His touch is there, almost swirling across her skin. And she wishes she was in the walls. She hears him in the dust, dancing in a golden light she never steps into. His whisper is there, almost upon the edge of her ears. And she wishes she was with them.

And she feels him in the silence inside her. And then she remembers that there is a part of him, left behind.

Why, then, is she afraid?

**this website has a serious problem spa ci n g loo k a ti te**

**w**

**review?**


	6. His Name is Solomon

**Heeeeere we have another chapter. AU, in which Our Great Lord Solomon and Sheba meet once more! The beginning is sorta crap cause I wrote this in the middle of a block but IT CLEARED so yesssss. Anyway. so ye. He remembers her, but she doesn't~**

His Name Is Solomon

Sheba can barely see what she sincerely hopes is the train station through the black translucency that is the rain. It's dark, so close to faded midnight that even the moonless sky shifts lazily. With nothing but a tiny, flickering torch (probably due to short circuiting) and seemingly only marginally better streetlights, she's having a hard time believing just how not lost she is. Something warm that she swears is not salty wells up in her vision and she fumbles to swipe it into the rain. She's not crying now, of course not. Bitterly cold fingers slip, and the already sodden map drops like a stone. A sound of frustration and exhaustion and grief that totally isn't a sob tears itself from her chest. The massive, shimmering puddle, long since having soaked into her pale ballerinas, barely ripples. The youth fights back a curse. That stupid sheet of paper was the only map she had. What now, huh?

A solitary black car flashes by, headlights blazing, music fading as quickly as it came into heavy gloom. And of course, _of course_ that god forsaken vehicle had summoned quite the tidal wave of bone-chilling water taller than Sheba was herself. With a splash and a splutter, her entire body is now trembling from not just the cold. Which black blooded peasant drives like that anyway? She reaches down, drawing the map that was brand new only some unbelievably long hours ago from the freaking ocean of the asphalt like a lump of mouldy bread from curdled milk. Half of the damned paper gives up, fibres tearing and unceremoniously dumping itself back into the water. The rain strengthens. Her torch finally dies. She really does curse this time and the profanity tickles the night.

The information centre shut only sixteen minutes ago. Sixteen out of the 167 endless minutes of trudging through relentless rain and steady darkness. She doesn't know this, and it's probably best because the knowledge would make her mood that much worse. Sheba glares black daggers through the glass, the sharp ends stabbing deep into a desk she knows is sugar maple from its buttery sheen. Flecks of rain somehow defy this tiny awning, but she feels nothing through the cold, long since scourged about her neck. How much better sheltered it would be inside...The youth kicks morosely at the concrete stoop, overshoots, and ends up stubbing her sodden toes upon the door. It hurts more than she'd like to admit, yet the left panel of the two glass panels barely shudders. Her frustration pitches forth in the form of something between a growl and a yelp. How naive, how stupidly hopeful this is.

Sheba slumps down to lean against the glass. No way she'll make it to the interview in time, not without looking like the remains of something the housecat coughed up. And her library-printed train ticket is almost certainly unrecognisable by now, packed and sodden beneath pencil, clothing and a leftover lunch. Hands of deep cold cease to wipe the wetness now truly streaming down her cheeks. There's no longer any point, for the new liquid fails to dampen her cheeks any more than they already are wet. Perhaps she shouldn't have escaped from "The Church" because even back then, she hadn't been cold like this, hungry, exhausted to the bone. This is it then, huh? This is the despair of being directionless, penniless, like glass on the breeze. There is no future in the city over. Even with this partial scholarship, there never had been.

"Miss?" The streetlights shimmer into focus, golden halos like dust against the wet tar and silent buildings. A chill fills the air in place of rain. She must have fallen asleep. "Are you alright?"

The voice again. Deliberate, charismatic and somehow familiar, with a tinge of...is it astonishment? Sheba lifts her weary head to greet the cobalt eyes of the stranger. They're intense, and as she does so, they grow wider.

"Yes sir. Thank you," She's formal. She always has been in the presence of strangers, especially in unfamiliar surroundings. The man nods uncomfortably, rigid body softening with something she instantly places as despair. Which is odd, because she's never really been able to read body language. The door of the information centre hangs ajar from his passing. There's a pause, and in the silence he shifts, breathes deep, blinks for a little longer than necessary. In the dark light, she momentarily perceives his hair to be a deep aquamarine, his casual hoodie and jeans to be something far less modest, far more foreign. He is strong and beautiful. Her heart lurches, and the vision is forgotten.

She breaks the quickly awkward silence, struggling to her feet. It isn't polite to talk in different levels now is it?. "I-I was just looking for the informat-the train station." She curses herself for the useless stutter, blaming the harsh cold in her bones, the bitter sleep. She clenches her jaw hard to keep the teeth from chattering, but it doesn't last long. And it's not like he'll help her anyway. It's not even working hours so why bother? Her backpack is damp and sticking to her equally damp, equally sticky, plain dress and thin coat. She's suddenly aware of what a mess she is, and moves to flatten two raggedy locks of hair that she knows are misbehaving by now. She'll need to look marginally alright for any chance of help from some quite obviously…well shaped stranger, right?

But the hand is stopped by his freakishly perfect fingers, which quickly draw away. What, who even does that? Sheba flares up just as the man apologises, averting his eyes. Who does this guy think he is? Ladies man, probably, and she frowns, aggravated. He sighs into the night as she simmers, not seeing the smile tugging at his lips, nor the heartbroken distance behind his eyes. And. And If not for these drastic circumstances, she would've given him a telling off by now, but she's got to be diplomatic. Anything for the interview, anything for the train station. She placates herself with rekindled hope; his silence is getting unnerving. She's got to do this. Like hell she knows how to read a map (proved a couple of hours before), so this man is her last hope, right? Sheba clears her throat resolutely, and his attention is back.

His coat is warm and dry against her shoulders, and though it must fit perfectly for him, the lowest edge grazes low against her relievedly warmer thighs. It smells of new carpet, only nicer. She chases away the thoughts. She's only just met him, so of course it isn't appropriate. And plus, he insisted, and she, in turn, quickly found how difficult it was to say no to his strangely kind self. It is long past midnight by now, gentle fingertips of grey creeping up the horizon, heralders of dawn. The shadows have shrunk, and she can't think whether it's the oncoming morning or something else. Truth be told, it's getting a little difficult to think at all, what when every half-smile somehow reduces her bones to liquid jelly. In the fallow early, stars very slowly begin to fade. She doesn't notice, not when his stride is are like the night-lights themselves, smooth and alluring. They'll make it to the station by dawn, he assures, and his voice is cooler than the velvet sky. She can't hold back a silent whisper of disappointment, knowing that he won't escort her further.

"I forgot to ask! What's your name?" She leans forward to catch his shiny name tag with curious eyes. It reads Simon Jonah Abraham, yet his near instant answer is not the same.

"Solomon. Different, huh?" Odd. Perhaps that's just his nickname? They round a corner and the train station, after what seems like piteously few seconds of more talking than walking, comes into view in all its flat, rectangular shabbiness.

"Yeah...never heard of a name like that before," she responds. There's sudden melancholy in his so often elated poise, and she realises suddenly that the stars are all but faded, leaving the sky with a predawn grey even shabbier than the station. By morning, she'll have reached her interview, books from Simon's friend Hugo's bookstore in hand. Sheba feels a rush of hope, of happiness and such convincing confidence that she beams at her newfound friend. He smiles back with his mouth only. The final nocturnal star winks out.

He payed for her ticket in place of the creased, fibrous pulp of her own one and even insisted she take some more, just in case her saved up fees for the all-inclusive boarding weren't enough. Had she said? Solomon was very difficult to refuse. Aria, the lady at the booth, chuckled at their senseless bickering. She found herself with a little more change than expected and Sheba's mathematics were certainly up to scratch. That lady had none of it though, and quickly took a call. The two slowed upon approaching the terminal, neither saying a word about the intended stall towards her departure. Concrete ceilings and the few, morose, other passengers were the only things keeping them. At last, her train screamed to a halt, brakes quite profusely smoking. "You'd better take this back," She said, already removing his large coat, strangely stylish on her petite frame. It was simultaneously heavy and light, and she felt substantially sorry to see it hanging off her forearms, those fingers of his curling around the leather. "I don't think so." And Solomon stepped close, pushing both her hands and the coat back. His intense pupils like twin coals in the heart of a dry ocean smouldered, urging. For what, she could not place. Her mouth fell open in wordless protest and something else, something yearning. What it was, she did not know. She tried again, and this time the something was gone and the commonplace of refusal was voiced.

"But it-it's yours!" She tried, already knowing her own futility. He shook his head, coals faltering and then drowning out as the blue of his ocean broke upon a deep, pink-mahogany shore. A ghost digit fingered a brown lock of her hair as he turned away. When he spoke again, it was strained, and he couldn't hide it.

"Keep it, and maybe…" He broke off, only to rephrase. "Goodbye Sheba, you follow your dreams," Simon Jonah Abraham never looked back, and as the train drew out into the lip of dawn, she hugged his coat tight. An unnoticed moisture seeped into the fluffy inside. Why was she staring into the darkness of the railway behind her? What was this placeless pain? The dawn was pale grey and uninspiring. Storm arose from brief reprieve. The raindrops came heavy and cold. She realised, then, that she'd never told him her name.

**I made them a teesy bit OOC, bu then again that could make sense since they've never met so their characters are of course, a little different. What do you all think?**

**It's kind of sequel worthy, so if you want another AU related sequel, review! :D It will make my week, not just a day.**


	7. Take

**Ok, so this is sorta drabbley and I could no longer repress my style of writing so yeh. See if you can make sense of my cryptic cryptic self. Lots of symbols and links. Also, now that I have marginally more people paying attention to me, please please please give me prompts? I've gotten down to using random word generators as my bunnies. That's how desperate I am. Sad, huh?**

Take

This cliff is imprinted on its backdrop like a stamp on an envelope, ink on paper, indomitable by anything less determined to simply be. But water soaks weakness into the playful veins of colour and tears paper more irreversibly than anything with steel or claw. The sea cannot be beaten, and she wonders how comforting its embrace could be, how much it could erase. Pregnant air hangs like honesty itself, blatant and harsh. She prefers the sun, for warmth and light lies more often than coldness ever could. She likes to think that the sea below feels it as much as she does, and that's why the white-rimmed grey breaks so continuously upon the cliffs that the land itself hums and groans. Sheba hums too, but her frequency is one of life, incompatible with stone dead earth. She wonders how it would feel if this outcrop collapsed into the sea and if she went with it.

Pockets of time pop like tiny soap bubbles and those craters linger in the air until she cannot count how many years have passed since she came to bleed her woes into the almost-storm, only for it to rain down somewhere far away. Maybe none, which would be cruel. At least as time passes, space does too and wounds heal. The wind glides, heavy and swirling though in no way is it kind. Perhaps she should give herself to it as a gift. It must be lonely. The weather, she realises, suits and she's not afraid of the sawdust-smile that she sends to greet just another brutal wave, another restless swath of sticky sky, another circuitry expanse of time.

An empty insecurity has become her companion since she thought loneliness would finally leave. In a sense, it has, yet this kind of replacement is no blessing at all. What is she to him, an ugly gauntlet? What are her words if not meaningless droning? Hot doubt blooms and she lets it. Is he only here through pity, painting her own glorified face with more shame than it already is? She should not try so hard to comprehend him in the hopes of keeping together the fracturing fragments of her heart. Perhaps she should let it break and then move on without the pieces. Peace, after all this, is what she wants now. For Sheba is this storm, this sea, this cliff. She is brooding and violent and jagged, a lullaby for the wicked, which is why when she opens her eyes in the night, Solomon is awake. Except this cliff is ancient, this storm is timeless, and the sea here is vast and enrapturing. Everything she is not.

Her tiny pocket mirror, it is grey towards the sky, against the sea. Her reflection is someone she wishes she was better than, the glass her own vessel. Her reflection glares out at her, not even envious, hardly sorry. She gazes back into the depthless surface. How controlled, how simple that world seems. What will happen then, if the mirror breaks? Planar and direct, the little item is the kind of thing that she knows not the origin of, but has somehow always been there. Like him, only never reflecting her. His glances, his nods, his words cannot be read and she wonders when he'd last looked at her with something she could understand. Her mind is too busy being drained of thought. There's no solace, no reply from within.

The mirror remains rigid in her hold, and cold, merciless in its silence. Maybe if it shattered, it could give her an answer, however false. Maybe its splinters on stone will spell out words less broken than the characters themselves are, she is. Maybe if she drops it far enough, she won't have to see that worthless girl staring back. Sheba lets her fingers slip and a sharp edge grazes another bubble of tick tick tick. It pops. But then the the mirror never has the chance to fall very far. Solomon's sudden arm are longer than hers and he snatches it out of the air, pale face flashing mournfully towards the sky. "What do you think you're doing?" She is silent, not even bothering to watch even as she sees, not bothering to feel even as a deep anguish lashes its serrated chains about her chest. She's not doing anything, but she doesn't tell him that. The sky fades out like it always does, the sea grows silent and the intensity of everything left spells tomes of pain. He should not have stopped her, stopped that.

"Give me back, give my mirror back," she whispers, realising suddenly that the rephrase makes far more sense. She hates the words for it. But Solomon folds it into his fingers until only one smooth expanse peers out.

"Not until you do." And there, trapped from between his hands, his image, dark against the sky. She's suddenly far too tired even to understand what he's saying. She hasn't taken anything, not even a sip of water from his glass. What he's taken, what he's stolen is hardly fair.

"Promise me not to take anymore." She's walking away now, turning her back, awaiting no answer. She's had enough. But Solomon catches her shoulder as she passes, and she regrets not skirting that much wider, maybe into the ocean. It's deafening again, and spray shoots so high that she swears some of it is salty on her lips. Impossible, but there's nothing else that liquid should be. The stone below should be smooth enough, shouldn't it?

"I'm so sorry, Sheba, but I can't do that."

The gravity of what he's saying is something she's terrified of, be it what she'd once hoped. All those days, ticking past like seconds on a pocket watch, soundless whenever hidden. Blind if ever broken. He steals something else now and the mirror falls at last free, the places where it was embedded only minutes old. It shatters and sinks upon jagged stone, surface just warmed by skin surrenders into the harsh chill of the sea. A rock falls away after it and disappears like salt into water. The splash is silent, drowned by ocean. Rain like grieving mist fills the air, a hesitant swarm so thin that it does nothing more than dust her trembling eyelashes whose kin are splayed across the earth.

**Did you get that all? And what happened at the end? -eyebrow wiggle- That's one pretty intense ending if you get it~**

**Sorry dear lord Solomon I have sinned.**

**ahem. ye. Please review and prompt me!**


	8. The Most Beautiful Thing

So this is really short, but I decided to publish it in because of that one favourite I got today. You guys are angels.

The Most Beautiful Thing

"Solomon?" He glanced towards her with raised eyebrows, a silent query. Sheba was frowning down at her blank sketchpad, pencil poised like a dancer from a paused play. "What's the most beautiful thing?" He swiftly memorized the page number before letting his book fall shut. A slender finger tapped at the worn leather bound cover twice and slowly before answering. Sheba asked questions like these. Ones without much significance, but compiled into a sprawling wealth that was her signature. She could make him think so very differently. Loving her-it was easier than breathing, more irresistible than the best of books. Solomon gazed sightlessly at the gaps between words, refusing to be distracted by the curve of her lips, the natural dip and swell of her body.

"A liberal world without conflict or oppression where the all people are equal. A paradise where people can find personal purpose. That is the most beautiful thing."

Her smile was distracted.

"Yeah, I guess so."

It could've been hours later, brought on by the bruised orange sky that rekindled their conversation. They did this, you see, rescuing strands of interaction from days passed. So attentive were they to each other, so often their thoughts lingered even upon the most trivial of pursuits.

"Why did you ask?"

"I wasn't sure what to draw," She managed around the rim of her cup, pencil skipping like faraway hail. Solomon felt for a moment intrigued, an emotion long buried by the shovels of responsibility and the dirt of uncertainty. Had she managed to encompass his dream between the fine strokes of graphite? Wordlessly, he pried the sketchpad from her unresisting grasp, only to see his own portrait there in light, erasable pencil.

I'm desperate for ideas, guise. Please help me if you have any!


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